Make You Mine by K.T. Quinn

5

Charlotte

My dreams were rapid and restless.

I was back at the restaurant with Scott and the food magazine guy, except in the blink of an eye he was a she, Tammy from Scott’s phone, and they began flirting as if I wasn’t even there. I ran from the restaurant to the car, but it was our food truck in the parking lot instead of my car, and somehow Tammy and Scott were inside before I could reach it and they drove away. And then my parents were there, hugging me while insisting everything would be okay.

Then I had a different kind of dream. One where I was in a black hole with nothing all around but thick darkness. I waited for my eyes to adjust but they never did, and although I could see nothing, I could feel something dangerous closing in, surrounding me on all sides and cutting off my escape. And then the man in the cell next to mine, Jayce, wrapped me in a protecting blanket, something like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, and suddenly I was safe.

I woke shivering on the bench in the jail cell. I started to sit up and something slid off my chest, something that had been covering me. A leather biker jacket.

Jayce’s jacket, I thought.

Even with the jacket draped over me, I’d been freezing. I doubted I would have gotten any sleep without it. Instinctively I pulled it to my nose and inhaled. It smelled like oil and smoke, and something sweet like peppermint. Arousal at his scent stirred within me.

I glanced to my right to thank him, but his cell was empty. I was alone now.

Boots stomped down the hall and the sheriff’s face appeared on the other side of the iron bars. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he said in that thick accent that reminded me where I was. He wrestled with a ring of keys and then unlocked my cell.

“Am I free to go?” I asked.

“Almost.” He waved me on. “Come on, then. Best behavior, if you please. If you make me use the handcuffs it’ll go tougher for you.”

I didn’t want to leave the jacket in the jail so I balled it up and took it with me. The sheriff led me down the hall, out of the receiving room and into the too-bright daylight. He held open the back door of the police cruiser. Dropping down into the back seat was like returning to a nightmare that I’d been hoping wasn’t real.

I wanted to ask him questions as we drove along the road. My experience yesterday kept stopping me. That, and Jayce’s advice: keep your mouth shut. Instead, I focused on the landscape. It was a small paved road with ditches on either side, filled with water from last night’s storm. To the right was a forest, and to the left was a long field filled with tall grass desperately in need of a mow. Trash fluttered along the road and landed in the ditches before floating away.

We made a turn and then drove down what I assumed was the town’s main street. There was a pharmacy with two gas pumps out front and a neon “SODA FOUNTAINS” sign above the front door. After that was a nameless diner built into a double-wide trailer, with a few faces staring out the window as we passed. A few buildings down was a restaurant called Flop’s Bar & Grill which looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the Nixon Administration. After that came Bob’s Barber, which appeared to be a combination barber and hardware store.

“Welcome to Eastland,” the sheriff announced. “It ain’t much to look at, but it’s the nicest place on earth.”

I couldn’t tell if he was making a very bad joke, so I stayed silent. Laughing at his town would probably get me thrown back in jail.

We turned off main street down a gravel road which wound through an abandoned field. It led to a riverbank with a boat launch and a shack which might have once sold refreshments, but was now one strong breeze away from blowing over. A man in fishing waders stood knee-deep in the river. He pulled back his fishing pole, then cast his line out into the water.

The sheriff pulled to a stop. “Here we are.”

“We’re going fishing?”

“Nope.”

We walked down to the edge of the river where the fisherman was reeling in his line with leathery hands. A wide-brimmed fishing hat concealed all but a little bit of his white hair.

“Charlotte Owens?” he asked without looking.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I’m Judge Benjamin,” he said in a thick, but dignified, accent. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

Judge. What on earth was going on here? I glanced back at the sheriff, but he just stood with his arms crossed and a blank look on his face.

“Judge,” I said. “I like your courtroom. Lots of natural light.”

He turned to show me his big grin. “Thank you kindly. We’ve got a building in town, but it’s stuffy and smells like moth balls. I prefer to dispense justice under God’s blue sky. You’ve declined to have a lawyer present?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t been allowed to make a phone call, nor given any opportunity to request a lawyer. But the sheriff was still standing behind me, and I got the feeling it would be a mistake to point any of that out.

“Yes, sir,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret the words. “I don’t think a lawyer is necessary for a traffic stop.”

Judge Benjamin reeled in the slack from his fishing line, then glanced over his shoulder at the sheriff. “I think we’re safe without you hovering. Miss Owens isn’t gonna run away. Are you?”

“No, sir.”

The sheriff nodded and returned to his cruiser without a word.

“Do you fish, Miss Owens?”

I hesitated. “My dad taught me when I was young.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I enjoyed being out there with my dad.”

“That’s a polite way of saying no,” he replied.

I allowed myself to smile. “It just wasn’t for me. I liked the peacefulness of it, though.”

“So do I,” he said. “Miss Owens, you’re charged with speeding, failure to obey a stop sign, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest. Is that correct?”

I gave a start. This was the first time I’d heard any of this. Stop sign? Disorderly conduct?

The judge glanced at me. “You have an issue with these charges?”

Keep your mouth shut, Jayce had said. If I disputed the charges, it would be my word against the sheriff’s. In good-old-boy towns like this, an outsider had no chance of convincing a judge.

“No, sir,” I made myself say. “I don’t have an issue with the charges.”

The judge spent a few moments focusing on his fishing rod. “The sheriff is a good man, but he can be… over-enthusiastic about the law. Conducts himself by the letter of it, rather than the intent. Sometimes he perceives the slightest offense to be a terrible infraction. If you know what I mean.”

“I do understand what you mean,” I said carefully.

“Do you believe my sheriff pulled you over mistakenly?” he persisted. “Were you speeding, did you run a stop sign, and did you then resist arrest?”

He had kind, understanding eyes. Eyes which would accept the truth. And he’d implied that this wasn’t the first time the sheriff had done this.

“I… am not sure,” I said judiciously. “The rain was coming down in sheets, and I believed I was going under the speed limit. I was on the frontage road next to I-16, and I didn’t see any stop signs, but I guess it’s possible I missed one on account of the rain.”

“And the disorderly conduct?” he pressed. “Resisting arrest?”

I glanced at the sheriff. He was inside the cruiser now, unable to hear what I would say.

“You can tell me, honey,” he said in a grandfatherly voice. “I’m a judge. If I’m to dispense justice, I need to know all the facts.”

Tell him, I thought. Tell him the truth so you can leave this town.

I took a deep breath and said, “The sheriff seemed to be looking for an excuse to bring me in. I had my license and registration ready when he came to the window. He wouldn’t take them. Just asked me questions about my suitcases, then demanded I get out of the car. I obeyed every order he gave as quickly as I could.”

“Mmm hmm,” he nodded. “I don’t doubt that you did. What’s that?”

He was looking at the jacket balled up in my hand. “Oh. The guy in the jail cell next to mine put this over me while I was sleeping. To keep me warm. I didn’t want to leave it.”

“A man named Jayce?”

I gave a start. “That’s him.”

Suddenly the fishing line went taut, and the rod curled down with the weight of a fish. The judge made an excited noise and expertly reeled the fish in. The fish that finally broke the surface of the water was about a foot long, silver and blue scales glistening in the early morning sun.

“I understand now,” the judge said. “You’re calling my sheriff a liar.”

It took a moment for the words to hit home. “I… no sir?”

“Yes you did.” He pointed at my feet. “You stood right there in your heels, just now, and contested my sheriff’s account of the events.”

“Sir, I didn’t—”

“Your honor,” he snapped.

Crap, I haven’t been using the right title all this time!

“Your honor,” I quickly corrected. “I’m sorry if I offended you. You asked me for the truth…”

He paused to remove the fish from the hook, then dropped it in a wicker basket. “Here’s what I think,” he said while aiming a long finger in my direction. “I think you were drunk.”

“Drunk! Your honor--”

“High heels and a skirt?” He scoffed. “You were out on a date. You’re not married, unless you conveniently removed your ring.”

“Your honor, I was at a business meeting in Savannah.”

“With all your belongings in the back seat of your car?” He snorted to let me know what he thought of that. “Next you’ll tell me you came by Jayce’s jacket innocently.”

I was at a loss for words. I didn’t even know where to begin. “I woke up with the jacket draped over me. He was already gone. I’m telling you the truth, last night I was in Savannah…”

“Jayce is a man who corrupts everything around him. A bad man.” The judge shook his head. “I’m giving you eighty hours of community service here in Eastland. Your license is hereby suspended, pending completion of the community service. If you would like to appeal the decision, you may file the paperwork with the courthouse in Macon county.” He nodded with finality. “Pretend you heard me bang a gavel.”

“My license?” I sputtered. “I didn’t even… No! You can’t do this!”

Fire filled his wrinkled eyes. “I cannot do what, exactly?”

His words dripped with unspoken threat, daring me to say anything more.

“Never mind, your honor,” I said in a weak voice.

“One hundred and twenty hours,” he said.

I sucked in my breath and barely bit back another protest.

“You are lucky I am so lenient,” he declared, as if the river reeds were a courtroom audience demanding a performance. “If I asked the sheriff if he smelled alcohol on your breath last night, I’m sure he would say yes. I’m letting you off mighty easy, on account of I’m in such a good mood. You understand, honey?”

“Yes, your honor,” I said through clenched teeth.

He nodded, then added a new lure to the end of his hook. “Beautiful morning to be under God’s blue sky, isn’t it? You have a nice day, now.”

I trembled with anger as I walked back to the sheriff’s cruiser.